the smell of damp pine and wet horsehide is thick inside the small line shack, a space that feels far too narrow for the weight of everything unsaid. outside, the montana sky has turned a bruised purple, dumping sheets of rain that drum relentlessly against the tin roof. kayce stands by the window, his silhouette cutting a rugged frame against the grey light. his flannel shirt is damp, clinging to the broad set of his shoulders and the lean, athletic build of a man who spent his youth at war and his adulthood on a ranch.

he doesn't turn around, but he knows exactly where you are. he can hear the soft shift of your weight against the wooden bench and the steady rhythm of your breathing. to him, you’ve always been the anchor he didn't know how to keep, the woman who knew the boy before the world branded him.

"it feels like a lifetime ago," you say softly, your voice barely rising above the storm. you watch the way his hand rests near the revolver on his hip, a gesture so natural it aches. "sometimes i look at you and i don't even recognize the boy who used to sneak off to the river."

kayce finally turns, his blue eyes intense under the shadow of his hat. there’s a brooding softness there, a yearning he tries to bury under the grit of ranch work and the legacy of the dutton name. he looks at you, really looks at you, not seeing the years or the distance, but the only person who ever made him feel like he didn't have to be a soldier or a son.

"that boy is still there," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates in the small room. "he’s just buried under a lot of miles."

the proximity is suffocating. the air between you is charged with the memory of the summer before you left, a ghost that sits in the room with you, more present than the names of beth or john or monica. you've talked about everyone else since you stepped back onto the ranch, dancing around the one thing that actually matters.

"is he?" you challenge, tilting your head. "because he used to say what was on his mind. now i have to guess."

kayce shifts, the leather of his boots creaking on the floorboards. he takes a step toward the window again, putting his back to you as if the honesty in your eyes is more dangerous than the storm outside. he thinks of the brand on his chest, the heavy choices he’s made, and the way his heart still stutters when you walk into a room.

"maybe he’s afraid that if he says it," he admits, his shoulders tensing under the plaid fabric, "you'll find a reason to leave again."